Oct. 15, 1734
We left St. Charles today, myself, Renée, Joseph, two young trappers and our three Indian guides. After an evening spent contemplating the formidable task of outfitting our little party with the supplies we would need, the decision proved a wonderful surcease for me.
My sweet young wife of only one year was staying with the Mandan, her tribe, awaiting my return with the supplies that would allow us to make the treacherous journey to reach the fabled portion of the country where no fur company had yet established a foothold.
In St. Charles for only two weeks, though, we received word from a trapper who had passed through the village that my dear Little Stone was stricken with some malady. The trapper said that the Indians were very frightened by the unnamed sickness, but for my friendship had not abandoned her, as was their wont with this illness.
The morning was disagreeably cold. The two young trappers, Jean-Luc LePage and Gerard Chaboillez, whom Renée, Joseph and myself had employed for this journey, were busy packing the three small pirogues with all of the goods they could safely carry.
The Mandan, all from the village that sat within the beautiful little clearing on the banks where the James River meets the Missouri, talked in an animated fashion amongst themselves. The eldest of them, White Antelope, gestured for me to come over.
He made me to understand that they were quite happy to be returning to their homes and to their wives. Then, his face became stern. He said, in his halting English, that it would be necessary to avoid the confluence of the Vermillion and Missouri Rivers, north of Council Bluffs.
Near the meeting of these rivers is a rather large, conical mound that rises with some height over the immediate landscape. The hill is called Wah-har-whan-tees, which means the Lodge of the Spirits of Wolves. It is supposed a home to malevolent creatures in wolf form that hunt and eat human flesh. The villagers conjure fear in their children with the merest suggestion that they will be left at the foot of Wah-har-whan-tees should they fail to act properly.
Realizing that this departure from the river would mean a delay of at least several days, I protested vehemently. Indian stories be damned! I would not allow this nonsense to keep me from my wife!
"We not go near Wah-har-whan-tees on the big river," White Antelope spoke. "One sun or two longer will make no change for Little Stone. It is the moon that guides her now."
At this, White Antelope's companions flicked at him a glance expressing great displeasure, though I knew not of what he spoke.
One of the other Mandan, Speaks-Like-Wind, voiced his opinion, then, in his namesake voice.
"You walk near Wah-har-whan-tees, you walk alone. You die alone," he intoned solemnly.
With this, they drifted to their own packs and horses.
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